


A catalogue of non-definitive acts

by alice_pike



Category: Pacific Rim (2013)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-29
Updated: 2013-08-29
Packaged: 2017-12-24 23:34:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,482
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/946007
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alice_pike/pseuds/alice_pike
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>Their sex has never really been about emotion, has never been dependent on whatever it is they happen to be feeling</i>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A catalogue of non-definitive acts

**Author's Note:**

> Written for [this prompt](http://pacificrimkink.livejournal.com/1613.html?thread=2802765#t2802765) at the kink meme.
> 
> Title from Siken's _Litany in Which Certain Things Are Crossed Out_ , because of course it is, and of which the relevant bits are quoted in the end notes.

"You're so good," Herc says, and it catches Chuck off guard, not even sure he's heard his father correctly. 

"So fucking good," Herc repeats, and he sounds so _earnest_ , so genuinely satisfied that Chuck doesn't know how to respond, how to react. 

Herc doesn't falter, though, keeps pushing into him, and it's all Chuck can do to let him, to try to keep up. Herc's words are ringing in his ears, everything else muted, and it's like Chuck is frozen in the moment, like his brain is scrambling to catch up.

"God, _Chuck_ ," Herc groans, like he can't help it, bitten off like he never meant to say it aloud, and all of Chuck's senses come rushing back, snapping him back into the present, his father fucking him into the mattress with a mantra on his tongue in the shape of his own name.

Their sex has never really been about emotion, has never been dependent on whatever it is they happen to be _feeling_. It's not that he and his father don't love each other, because they _do_ , they both know they do; it's just...they have the drift for that. Striker is the one place where they really open up to each other, where they let each other take whatever they want, whatever they need; and they don't carry that kind of vulnerability outside of the conn-pod. They never have. 

So hearing his father say his name like it's the only thing he knows, like it's the only thing he will ever need, makes Chuck's breath catch in his throat, sends a shiver through his whole body that he doesn't quite recover from. He's both boneless and strung taught under Herc's hands, stripped naked under his gaze, and all he knows is that he needs Herc closer, needs his father right now in every way Herc will let him have.

He doesn't get Herc like this, ever. He doesn't know what's different this time, what caused the slip in Herc's normally impeccable facade, but he latches onto it like he'll never get it again, clings to it like a lifeline. His fingers scrabble at Herc's back as he pulls him closer, tightens his arms around him. There's desperation bleeding into his touch, a longing he can't counter or pull back from, and he knows that Herc can sense the change in the room, can pinpoint the exact moment when Chuck turns from demanding to needy, but he can't do anything about it.

It's starting to overwhelm him, how much he's reacting to it, how much Herc's words are affecting him. It's one thing to know how Herc feels, to feel that surge of pride and love in the drift. It's another thing entirely to have his father above him, rocking into him, to hear firsthand the affection in Herc's voice.

"Christ, you're so good," Herc repeats, almost mindlessly but still so sincere, like he's never had anything better than what Chuck can give him.

"Dad," Chuck breathes, a broken syllable that cracks with his voice, comes out of him like a punch to the gut; and he squeezes his eyes shut at the sound of it, how it betrays so much of what he doesn't let himself admit: That he needs this, that he _craves_ it, that everything he's ever done he's done for his father's approval; that he wants—needs—nothing more than an affirmation that Herc made the right choice, that Herc doesn't regret his decision. 

"You're beautiful like this," Herc tells him, and it's indulgent, Chuck knows it is, but he can't bring himself to care because that reassurance is everything he's told himself he doesn't need, everything he's lied to himself about. But Herc is giving it to him now, acknowledging the momentary crumbling of Chuck's walls, with him in this moment like he only ever is in the drift.

The air in the room is suddenly suffocating, the weight of the moment bearing down on him; and when Herc reaches for Chuck's hand, threads their fingers together, Chuck can't take it anymore.

He feels a sob start to rise in his throat but he chokes it down, tries to get himself back under control. He doesn't know why he can't stop it, why he can't reel himself back in like he's been able to do since he was fifteen years old. It's threatening to overwhelm him, this ball of raw emotion trying to force its way out of him, and he sucks in a rattling breath trying to calm himself down, just trying to _breathe_. 

It sounds as desperate as he feels, though, his voice ragged and catching on every exhale like he can't stop himself making noise, little gasps and groans like he's in pain. They just make him more aware of everything, of how he's still trying to catch his breath, how he can still feel the lump in his throat and the tightening of his chest, how he doesn't even have a word for what he's feeling.

How he's clinging to Herc, fingers digging into his back, like he's afraid that if he lets go, if he even loosens his grip, he'll be lost entirely. 

"Hey," Herc whispers, face pressed just under his ear, sensing everything Chuck is feeling. "Hey, it's all right. Chuck," he says, like he's pleading with him for something. _"Chuck."_

But Chuck's losing this fight, can't control whatever it is trying to claw its way out, and he's begging Herc for something, _anything_ , wordless demands spelled out in red lines down Herc's back, in fistfuls of his hair.

"My boy," Herc says, _insists_ , muffled now into the skin of Chuck's neck. "My baby boy."

It rips through Chuck like a tidal wave, tearing down any defenses he might have been building, completely destroying any control he'd had. The sob is torn out of him, violent and inevitable, and Herc just rocks him through it, murmuring into the crook of his shoulder. 

Chuck starts to catch his breath, some of the tension dispelled, but he can't help the tears that are rolling down his temples, wetting the pillow beneath his head. He knows that they're just a reaction, just an effusion of everything he can't tamp down, but Herc notices, _of course_ he notices. 

He trails kisses up Chuck's jaw, noses at Chuck's cheek, brings his hand up to wipe away his son's tears with a gentle press of his thumb. 

Chuck makes the mistake of looking at him, of catching his eye, and it's like it hits him all over again, this wave of emotion that he can't fight, and then he's dragging Herc forward, pulling him into a bruising kiss, gasping into his mouth. 

"Dad," is all he says when they break apart, both panting for breath. "Dad, I—"

"Shhh," Herc quiets him, dropping a quick kiss on his lips. "I know," he tells him, and Chuck doesn't even feel Herc's hand sliding between their bodies, doesn't notice until Herc's fingers wrap firmly around the base of his cock.

It's too much, more than he can handle when Herc starts stroking him, slowly, his rhythm matching the slow roll of his hips. He can't do anything but let Herc touch him, surrender completely to his father's ministrations. Tears are still leaking from the corners of his eyes and it's all too overwhelming, the fluttering of his heartbeat and the burning in his lungs, the thrum of pleasure that's almost painful, the soft murmuring of his father's voice in his ear.

It's too much; and when he finally comes it is with a sob and not a shout, his father's hand steady on his cock, his father's lips wet and warm against his skin. 

"That's it, boy," Herc tells him as he jerks him through the aftershocks, Chuck gasping and utterly wrecked beneath him.

"Good boy," Herc says, satisfied, when he feels Chuck go boneless, completely helpless to his exhaustion. Herc pulls out of him before he finishes, gets a hand on himself and comes over Chuck's stomach; and Chuck is too fucked out, too drained, to say anything about it, if he even would've otherwise.

He watches Herc through lidded eyes, lashes crusted with dried tears, and reaches for him clumsily, his limbs feeling soft and stretched like rubber. Herc goes, stretching out on his side, wrapping an arm around Chuck's waist. He's too exhausted to think and he's grateful for it, the awareness of what just happened hovering somewhere in the periphery of his mind, something to be kept locked away until their next drift, when Chuck can face this again without embarrassment or shame.

For the moment, he is content to let the heat of Herc's body leech into his own, settle his still-trembling limbs, loosen the knots of his muscles and let him sleep into sleep, his father a constant presence at his side.

**Author's Note:**

>  _Every morning the same big_  
>  _and little words all spelling out desire, all spelling out_  
>  You will be alone always and then you will die.  
>  _So maybe I wanted to give you something more than a catalog_  
>  _of non-definitive acts,_  
>  _something other than the desperation._


End file.
